


this isn't about love, except when it is

by lismicro



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lismicro/pseuds/lismicro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tells herself that being in love with a prisoner doesn’t count. It doesn’t change who she is or what she knows is the truth. Franky/Erica post season finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this isn't about love, except when it is

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a just a passing thought that got out of control.

In hindsight, it’s no surprise that Erica loses her job.

She admits it. If she’s being a complete masochist and taking an objective look at the situation, she would have sacked herself on the spot. Three drug busts in five months. Franky’s hand, Bea’s assault, Jacs’s hand. Liz’s meltdown. Two brutal murders under her watch, one of a minor that affected the community outside Wentworth. Separate and inevitable events, sure, but on a prison record it all looks pretty fucking preventable, and everyone knows it. Now the officers look at her with a mix of relief and pity when they pass her in the halls, and it takes everything inside of her not to smash something (or someone) into the wall.

(But now walls remind her of Franky, and there isn’t a day where she doesn’t go into her office, mornings, and hope that Franky isn’t sprawled across her chair.)

In the end, she’s filling out the forms for Bea to return to Wentworth in a few weeks, this time for a life sentence, when the GM raps on her door and wordlessly hands her a memo announcing her resignation. She takes a cursory glance at it, the ticking time bomb sitting on top of her To-Do pile, and signs her last form before arching her fingers across her face.

He looks tired, aged impossibly in the space of half a year, and for a moment she forgets her career and the fuckery she’s made of it and focuses instead on his weaknesses. And he has a lot of weaknesses.

“You knew this was coming, Erica.”

“I did, did I? And I’m supposed to feel comforted by that fact?”

“Please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be. The higher-ups have already signed off on it, it’ll only make things worse to drag this on further.”

He’s right, but hearing it out loud makes it final, solid and real. It still comes as an unexpected blow, and Erica swallows the lump in her throat until he’s out the door. Then she lets herself shed a few tears, blurring her vision of Franky’s law school application before her on the desk. It fits, she thinks, that this is the last decision she’ll make as Governor of Wentworth. Rehabilitation of dangerous criminals, and all that. It makes cleaning out her desk later that week a little bit more bearable.

She avoids making her usual tours of the prison on her last few days, choosing instead to run Vera and Will ragged in a last, parting shot. In a moment of petty jealousy she steals a potted plant Meg had brought into the office and rearranges all the prisoner files into first-name alphabetized, for the next Governor. When making the formal announcement in front of a dozen flashbulbs, she pulls her best poker face and reads her lines like a good little girl, drawing a sigh of relief from everyone behind her.

(Erica hopes none of the inmates are watching.)

But she can’t keep putting things off forever, and on her last day she takes a deep breath and makes the final walk through the prison yard to her car. It’s only a few yards but it feels like miles, and Erica forces herself to put one foot in front of the other, her breath even, her eyes straight and steady even as her heart beats staccato in her throat.

_Don’t look. Don’t look._

The yard is silent, whether in respect or derision she doesn’t know, masses of blue jumpsuits keeping a careful distance from the fence. It’s only a few feet more to the parking lot when someone breaks free of the ranks and slams into the fence behind her with a rattle, calling out.

“Wait!”

And despite everything Erica turns around, because her body just obeys Franky in a way she never asked it to.

And it’s strange, because Franky is the unquestioned top dog now, with Bea in court and Jacs dead. There’s no reason for her to be clutching at the fence tight enough to strangle it, her bright blue eyes lined in smudged eyeliner boring into Erica’s. There’s no reason for her jaw to be wound tight, for her shoulders to heave the way they do, for her to be breathing as hard as she is. There’s no reason for her trademark smirk to be completely absent from her face.

There’s no reason for Franky to look so _desperate_.

“You didn’t tell me you were going.”

“I didn’t have to. They broadcasted it on television, there was no need-“

“You should have told me. But I suppose running away is more your style. Your fiancé must be happy, thinking he’s got no sort of competition anymore. But he’s wrong, isn’t he?”

“Goodbye, Franky.”

And she continues walking. But Franky pulls up next to her, trailing her fingers along the wire.

“Don’t you think I deserved to know? What, after everything, you thought you could just walk away from me?” Hurt seeps into Franky’s voice, even as she waves an angry hand at the other inmates to back away from the two of them. Erica stops dead in her tracks, feels the old, familiar fight rise again in her chest, the battle between kissing Franky and pushing her away.

“We weren’t anything, Franky. I was your tutor and I cared about your well-being, but that was it. There was nothing between us.”

“That’s bullshit. You wanted it, liked it when I kissed you, you kissed me back. For once in your life, Erica, be honest with yourself. Be honest with me. You owe me that much.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Franky. I’m sorry, but you’re delusional if you thought our relationship was anything but professional. It was a one-time mistake. I lost my composure and you took advantage.”  
This is necessary. Franky scoffs and throws her hands up before turning on Erica again, her voice low and deadly dangerous.

“Oh, I’m delusional, it that it? Well that’s fucking great, try telling yourself that when you’re at home with your fiancé tonight. When you’re fucking him, when you’re pretending to be happy with him, when you’re standing at the fucking altar- you’ll be thinking of me, wishing it was me. I hope it haunts you, Erica. I hope you never go to sleep without seeing my face.”

Erica sighs in defeat, because Vera is starting to peer nosily into the yard and she is so tired and all she can think about is how good Franky looks outlined against the setting sun.

“Be good, please, Franky.”

“Fuck you, Erica.” Franky spits, and there is so much scorn in her eyes that Erica is thankful for the metal separating them, lest Franky grab her by the chin and kiss her hard. Again. Her lips still tingle with the memory. She lets herself take one last look at Franky before turning on her heel and walking to her car. The image of her slumped there across the fence, powerful and proud even in her moments of defeat, makes Erica shiver.

(She tells herself that being in love with a prisoner doesn’t count. It doesn’t change who she is or what she knows is the truth.)

  
*

  
Fortunately, there are perks to losing her job.

It gives her a handy excuse to push her engagement back once again and Mark instantly transforms into the perfect comforting boyfriend, giving her flowers and little notes and slow sex at night as she begins the process of looking for a new job. Two degrees and her experience (Wentworth being a stain on an otherwise perfect record) pretty much guarantee her any position she wants, and she quickly settles into a cushy lawyer’s office on the other side of the city.

(Keeping busy keeps her from thinking of Franky.)

But it backfires, because she’d never thought of how much of her life Wentworth had taken up. She doesn’t have to get up at five in the morning and leave at six in the evening. Her workload fills with property law, so she rarely stresses at work. She has time to cook and clean again, and her house practically sparkles. She gets the chance to exercise regularly once more, and loses five pounds as a result. Mark is pleasantly surprised and she can practically see the gears working in his head, transforming her into the perfect housewife he’s always hoped she’d be.

But more free time is more thinking time, and Erica’s thoughts these days only go to one person.

*

  
“Erica?”

“Hmm?”

She’s with her mother for Sunday brunch, holding a cup of hot coffee between her palms.

“I have to say, I’m so glad that you’ve stopped working at the prison. It was so much unnecessary pressure, you know, and so dangerous. Your father and I can breathe easy again. I don’t know why you took that position in the first place.”

“Mum…” Erica sighs, setting down her cup. “It was a good experience, working with the women. I enjoy social work, you know. It was a welcome challenge.”

“Still, dear. You among all those- aggressive women. I still don’t think they should allow les- _lesbians_ into the general population, especially if women are working there. I have nothing against them, but when they’re criminals-“

“Alright, alright. Let’s not talk about work. How’s Dad these days?"

A cold sweat has broken out all over Erica’s body. Her mother’s voice grows ever quieter until she is lost, and Erica is drawn back to her red-walled office, watching Franky fuck Kim on CCTV. Her own fingers disappearing up her skirt, gasping for breath when her shirt became too restrictive. Feeling sure that everyone could walk in and smell the way Franky made her feel.

She wants to scream at herself for getting turned on now, of all times, of all the places. But Erica just crosses her legs tighter and smiles brightly, hoping her flush doesn’t show on her face.

*

Mark goes to a conference for work.

Alone in her apartment, Erica pours herself a glass of wine and draws a hot bath, lowering herself in with a long exhale of relief. It’s been a long day and all Erica really wants to do is fall asleep and not wake up a few days. She’s relaxed and comfortable when the thought occurs to her. No one is listening.

Her fingers set aside the wine glass and glide down her wet chest, past her breasts and her torso, dipping lower, lower. Feather-light touches turn into harder ones, moving past wet hair towards her raw, aching clit. She’s so sensitive that she thinks the first touch might be enough to make her come, and gasps when it doesn’t, sending waves of pleasure through to her toes. The water is steaming but she can still feel slippery heat when she pushes her fingers inside, starts to thrust them in and out, in and out. The pleasure uncoils itself in her- in her-

In her _cunt._

And then Franky, in her mind’s eye, is straddling her, sliding two of her own fingers into Erica, laughing when Erica tries to squirm and can’t because Franky is holding her down. It’s so fucking good that her ass comes completely off the porcelain as she grinds herself desperately against Franky’s fingers. A moan escapes her throat when Franky sucks hard on her neck, slowly caressing a handful of Erica’s breast, and whispers every filthy thing she’d like to call Erica, every position she’s ever wanted to fuck her in, every toy she would use. Promising her. It’s too much, too fast, and within minutes Erica knows she’s about to lose control.

When she comes, finally, it feels like every orgasm she’s ever had has been a lie.

Erica’s body comes down from the high, spent and exhausted, water spilling all over the bathroom floor. She sits in stunned silence for a moment, opens her eyes. She’s alone again.

Of course.

*

The next day, someone makes a crack about Wentworth (the word “bitches” is used) and she nearly breaks her chair, jumping up to tell him off. He looks genuinely terrified as Erica berates him, pushing her finger into his face in righteous anger. When she finishes and practically throws him out of her office, she collapses in her chair and covers her face with her hands. Even now, five months on, she can see Franky’s wide grin, eyebrows arched and her tongue poking out, slowly clapping her hands in applause.

 

*

Things fall apart approximately one year post-Wentworth.

Erica doesn’t know what it is, a bad day at work or a moment of Franky-related weakness again. She’s come to expect those moments, as certain as the rising sun. But she comes home and sees Mark on the couch, a beer in hand and tie loose around his neck, and gets so fed up that she slams her fists hard enough to bruise on the granite countertop.

Mark jumps up.

“Erica! What the hell?!”

Her blood pulses in her throat, and suddenly this moment feels so inevitable that she wonders how she put it off for so long.

“I can’t do this anymore. Mark, I can’t- I can’t be with you anymore.”

The look on his face is so shocked it could be comical.

“What? I don’t understand-“

“I-“ She stops, closes her eyes, and presses her fingers to her lips. “I’ve been fooling myself into thinking that we were right for each other. I thought we could be. But it’s not there anymore, Mark. Whatever it was, it’s gone, and I can’t get it back.”

“We- we can go to couples counseling. I can take some time off work. Just please- tell me what I can do to fix this. I swear I can fix whatever’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing ‘s wrong with you, Mark, I just can’t do this. Being with you wouldn’t be honest. And I’m done with lying to you and lying to myself that this is enough for me.”

“Is this about what happened to us- that night in bed? Our sex life?”

“No!”

It is, but it isn’t.

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about everything. I don’t love you anymore, Mark.”

He looks at her accusingly, but it only lasts for a moment before he’s slumped, defeated.

“So that’s it. After six years, I’m suddenly not enough for you.”

“It’s not your fault, Mark.” She says.

“Damnit, you could have given me- you could have given me a sign, Erica!” He explodes, desperate. His face is red and his eyes are brimming with tears. Erica is crying, too, not because she regrets it but because it feels like a failure and she needs some comfort too. Six years gone in a few words.

“I’m sorry.”

“Six years! When I asked you if I was enough, you said yes! I don’t- I can’t-“ He’s too far gone for words and collapses in a heap against the kitchen table. And Erica is left to see the wreckage she’s caused.

It takes six more hours of yelling back and forth before Mark finally gets it into his head that Erica’s adamant, and he storms out of the apartment. Erica collapses on their bed- her bed, and stretches luxuriously, sprawled starfish-style across the sheets. Sleep comes easily than it has in years.

On the day the last of Mark’s boxes are out of her apartment, she opens a bottle of whisky at two in the afternoon and drinks without stopping, until she’s laughing uncontrollably at her ceiling fan spinning above her. The night comes quickly and so does Erica, high on freedom and lust and an image of Franky that has become commonplace whenever she’s fucking herself. Erica brings herself off an untold number of times that night, rechristening her bed.

The hangover the next day is worth it.

  
*

  
One day she comes home from work to find a small envelope amongst the bills and adverts in her mailbox. It’s been almost a year and a half post-Wentworth, and Erica looks at the mailing address and _knows_.

Franky’s handwriting is surprisingly elegant. She can see Franky sitting on her bed, writing behind her hand, laughing out loud at Erica’s face as she read her words. Undoubtedly the censors took out some of the most obvious innuendos, but it’s still Franky.

It doesn’t surprise her that it’s been this long- Franky holds grudges for a long time. But she writes that the prison isn’t quite as exciting without her, that Liz and Doreen have properly reconciled, that Bea is a problem that she’s “working on”, and how much she misses Erica.

In so many words.

Erica shakes her head in exasperation.

She leaves the card on her table and ponders writing Franky back for a week before caving in. There’s so much that she wants to say but can’t, not yet, and not with other people reading. So she sticks to the weather and questions about the other inmates and telling Franky to stay out of trouble. She doesn’t mention Mark.

_…and I hope you’re keeping up with your studies. You have so much potential._   
_Regards,_   
_Erica Davidson_

*

The night after she sends her letter, Erica begins to dream.

(Sometimes Franky is clothed when she comes to Erica’s door, and other times she’s so gloriously naked that Erica’s hands grasp at empty air, unsure of what to touch first. The choice is taken out of her hands when Franky shuts the door and smirks, backing her against the wall. “Tell me what you want me to do.”)

Franky’s next letter comes with a lipstick kiss. Everyone is well, and Bea and Franky are working on a mutual balance of power in the prison. No drugs, no riots. She’s behaving.

_I like the law program more than I thought I would. My new tutor is this old man- not nearly as hot as you, but he’s helping me alright. Maybe one day I could give you a lesson or two._

Seasons come and go, and Erica settles into an easy routine. Every two weeks or so Franky gets mail privileges, and Erica always responds. They don’t talk about anything that might be censored, and Franky goes radio silent for a few months- allegedly for fighting. But then Bea Smith of all people writes her, explaining that Franky did nothing wrong, and Erica knows she’s changed.

_Get your degree first, Doyle, and then we’ll talk._

_What, you don’t think I can hold my own against you? Did it well enough when you were here, as I recall._

(Another time Franky bends her over her desk and bunches her skirt over her waist, asking her questions about her cases before an important hearing. A correct answer earns her a roll of Franky’s hips, the strap-on pushed inside of Erica as deep as it will go. A wrong answer earns her a smack with the ruler Franky clenches in her wrist. Eventually she realizes that Erica is giving her the wrong answers on purpose, and then Erica can’t sit properly for the rest of the week.)

_You’re on._

(There’s this one fantasy that recurs more than any other, where Franky pins her to the bed, hips to hips and breast to breast, one hand gripping Erica’s wrists while the other is three fingers deep inside her, touching her, fucking her into oblivion. Franky brings her to the edge and back once, twice, a dozen times, not finishing her off even after tears run down Erica’s cheeks and the word “please” has lost all meaning to her. And even then, Franky doesn’t let her come, just smirks, kisses her cheek, and slides off the bed. Erica’s pride lasts for about ten fucking seconds before she ventures outside her bedroom and into the kitchen after her. Franky would be sitting at the table, draped in one of Erica’s nice shirts, a lit cigarette dangling off her lip and her eyes- those damn blue eyes- pinned to Erica’s naked form as she kneels in front of Franky’s spread legs.)

The mornings after those dreams, Erica always walks into the kitchen expecting to see broken dishes and smashed glass from where Franky slammed her up against the cupboards and fucked the living daylights out of her as a reward for being patient, for being submissive, for letting herself explore.)

Franky’s last postcard comes a week before she’s due for parole.

_Come visit.  
_

That’s it.

 

*

 

When Vera sees Erica walk into the visiting area, she fumbles the phone and straightens her uniform before walking up to Erica in that stilted, stern manner that she did.

“Miss Davi-Erica! What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to visit Franky.”

Erica always thought that Vera knew about the two of them, and her suspicions are confirmed when she clears her throat and buzzes her through.

Erica’s throat aches from swallowing her nerves and she keeps her eyes down, all too aware of the other prisoners staring at her presence in Wentworth again. The pamphlets start to rub off against her nervoushands, and she’s trying in vain to get them un-sweaty when someone sits down at the seat opposite her.

"Hey,” Franky says.

She hasn’t changed. Same white tank top, same blue pants, same infuriating smirk that goes through Erica in such a way, her knees wobble. Her hair is longer but still in a messy rat-tail, and she still manages to defy the laws of physics when she leans back on one leg of the chair. She’s undoubtedly still Franky, but a little more so. A little more muscular, a little cockier, a little wiser (she hopes). Franky fills the room, electrifies it. She has a presence even greater than she did before, and beneath her perfect make-up Erica flushes red.

“Hello, Franky.”

Franky’s face splits into a smile so familiar it seems that no time has passed, her tongue tracing her bottom lip.

“Sounds nice, you saying my name. Been thinking about that for a year and a half.”

Erica smiles too, and finds herself at a loss for words. They’ve talked about everything, from the inmates to the shit TV to Franky’s career prospects . Now it seems like they’ve spoken about everything except what really matters.

“How have you been doing, Franky?”

“Still bored. No one worth being with, not since Kim got out.”

“I didn’t mean-“

“Are you sure?” Franky’s eyes are laughing. “Are you actually sure that isn’t what you meant?”

They stare at each other, the longing almost palpable between them. Two years of not seeing Franky has lowered Erica’s defenses, and her hands itch to simply reach out and touch Franky again. But she’s not completely powerless. Erica has grown in ways that she never could have imagined, and Franky notices.

She reaches forward and gently takes Erica’s hand in her own, tracing the spot where her ring should have been.

“So how is the husband?”

“I don’t have one.”

Franky sits up at that, pulling her feet off the table to look Erica in the eye. She still has that infernal smirk on her face, but this time it’s a little wary, a little cautious.

“He’s a bloody fool for leaving you. Unless …”

“Unless?”

“Unless you left _him_.”

Erica smiles thinly.

“I left him, yes.”

“For what reason?

“It just wasn’t enough for me anymore. And I don’t think my relationship needs to be hashed out with you, thank you.”

“Huh.”

Franky still hasn’t let go of her hand and Erica entire body tingles when she begins to trace her fingers along Erica’s palm. Franky’s fingers are strong but soft, and they knead her wrist as her pulse courses through her veins.

“Dating anyone new, then?”

“Dating? No.”

There’s a long pause.

“Fucking anyone?”

“Franky-“

“Because there’s no shame if you are. No judging from my corner. Just wanted to know who the lucky person was.”

Erica wants to protest, to say that Franky has no claim to her, but there’s really no point anymore. They both know it’d be a lie.

“Once or twice, a few people. But I don’t want to get into a relationship just yet.”

“And why not?”

“I’m…waiting for someone.”

Franky’s face literally lights up and she laughs out loud, low and deep in delight. Even a foot away Erica feels it vibrate up her body . That’s when Franky surges forward and takes Erica’s face in her hands, and kisses her, hard, as the entire visiting room erupts in cheers. Franky tastes like mint and a faint trace of cigarette smoke, lingering on Erica’s lips when she pulls away.

“You planned ahead, did you?” she whispers, their breath mingling between them.

“You know me.” Franky grins.

Erica does.

*

When Franky is released, Erica is waiting.

They don’t make it three blocks before Franky tells her to park in an abandoned lot and is on top of her in a second. But she’s distracted by being free for the first time in years, and it isn’t hard to flip Franky over and take control for once. It's nothing like the imagined and everything in her wildest dreams when she feels her fingers being soaked in Franky, watching how each little shift of her fingers draws a different sound from Franky's throat.

Watching Franky come is a religious experience. Her back arches and she sinks her fingers into Erica’s back, but her eyes remain wide open and wondrous. Somehow, they make it home without incident and fall into Erica’s bed, and Franky looks down at her with something like love before reaching down to slide her hands underneath Erica’s shirt. Erica can’t stop kissing her. She strips off Franky’s shirt and kisses her. She throws her panties across the bedroom, runs her hands through Franky’s hair, and kisses her. She gasps when Franky enters her and she kisses her breath away. Three seconds is too long to go without her, and Franky doesn’t give her any time to recover before flipping her over and kissing down her back.

They don’t leave the bed until Franky’s stomach rumbles, and even then it’s only to lick chocolate syrup off of Erica’s shoulderblades in the kitchen.

It’s perfect.

*

  
Living with Franky is nowhere near as perfect.

Franky has the worst temper of anyone Erica’s ever met. She’s also stubborn as hell, uninviting to everyone but Erica, and too clever for her own good. On her first day working as a paralegal at Erica’s office, she almost gets fired for “impertinence," which means Erica, in return, gets reprimanded for defending her. Erica has her faults too (she's controlling and bossy and has the patience of a flea) and it’s infuriating having someone know exactly when Erica is trying to weasel her way out of something.

But they always work it out.

Erica cooks, because Franky is still a little wary around the kitchen and hot things in general. Franky does most of the cleaning in return. Erica has a mini-panic attack when her parents walk in one day, ready to surprise their daughter, and discover a naked and rather tousled-looking Franky brushing her teeth at the kitchen sink. Franky looks up, smiles through a mouthful of toothpaste, spits, and talks all three of them through it with admirable tact. They work together when they can, argue when they can’t, and fuck their way steadily through the days.

 

 *

Around five months into their relationship, Erica gets sick.

It’s nothing that a few rounds of antibiotics and bed rest won’t cure, but Franky reacts as if Erica has been infected with Ebola or something similar. She brings her more soup than any normal person could drink, calls her every break and lunch from work, and nearly tears the house down when Erica can’t find her favorite bathrobe in the clean laundry. Finally, when Franky insists that she accompany Erica to the bathroom and the kitchen and everywhere else, lest she “fall and break her head open,” Erica is forced to push a full glass of wine into Franky’s hand and tell her to take a nap.

On the night her fever is the worst, the last hurdle before it hopefully breaks, Franky slips into their bed with a cold washcloth and presses herself against Erica’s feverish, shaking body. They fit so easily, like they always do, and she smiles when Franky draws the covers over her and draws patterns along her back to help her sleep.

She’s almost dozed off when Franky leans over and kisses her cheek.

It could be the sick delirium messing with her mind, but she swears that she hears Franky whisper “Love you” into her neck before settling back behind her, breathing soft as she falls asleep.  
The next morning Erica wakes overheated and feeling like her head’s been stuffed, but her body isn’t burning and Franky is still there, mouth wide open and snoring loud enough to beat the band.

It’s a step forward.

(Franky, predictably, gets sick the next day. So Erica has to wait an entire week until she’s sure that Franky is lucid again, before she tells Franky that she loves her too.)

The look on Franky’s face is priceless. Erica resolves to say the words as much as possible.

 

*

Five years after Erica loses her job, she stands at the kitchen counter with a cup of steaming coffee in her hands as the early morning sunlight lights up the house. Franky is cursing a blue streak in the next room because she can’t get her tie on properly. They’re due at Wentworth in half an hour to celebrate Liz’s parole, _and_ they have to pick up Boomer on the way.

“Fuck!”

And Erica only smiles, moving forward to help her. Tonight, after dinner and drinks, she knows for a fact the tie will be around her ankles, her wrists, or her neck. None of this clumsiness then. Erica will let herself go, and Franky will laugh at her and love her and she’ll be there when she wakes up the next morning.

*

Sometimes, Erica thinks that losing her job at Wentworth is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

After Franky, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any OOC characterization and/or rambling. Thanks for reading!


End file.
